Under the Rubble
by OCsRuleMyLife
Summary: On September 11, 2001, American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. That same day, American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon. As a memorial, I write this fanfiction.


On September 11, 2001, American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. That same day, American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon. These terrorist acts shocked the nation into unity, for however brief a time. As a memorial, I write this fanfiction. (As an added note, I did NOT forget Flight 99; they are a crucial part of the 9/11 story, but they are a seperate chapter. Someday, perhaps, I will write a memorial to them. Please, do not degrade the importance of the rest of the tragedy by focusing only on the fallen heroes of Flight 99. Many others lost their lives that day.)

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><p><span>Under the Rubble<span>

New York looked around the meeting room at the 32 men. It was September eleventh, 2001. He tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for the last man to sit down. He reached forward, taking a sip of the coffee in front of him, then leaning back, adjusting his fedora. He folded his arms, and spun in his chair once. The last man still stood somewhat awkwardly. He looked up at him, then extended a hand, "Please, sit down." The man shook his head. New York blinked a couple times. "Sit. Down. I'd like to run a business, if that's alright with you." The man stared for a while, and eventually sat down. New York shook his head, and looked down at the papers in front of him. He was a little anxious, since this was the group of men that Alfred Jones, his boss, had set up to evaluate his progress. They were meeting in an inconspicuous place; the World Trade Center. Plenty of people walked in and out; no one would notice New York. He leaned forward when everyone was looking at him, and he looked up at the clock. 8:45. Right on time. He stood up, and opened his mouth to speak, but never finished the first word that was intended to come out. His eyes fell on the eyes of every man in the meeting room, a few of which were jumping out of their seats, running to the hallway. He followed the gaze of those too naïve to follow, or those who knew their fate was imminent regardless of running to the hallway. He turned around to complete his following, and his eyes shot open like saucers. He backed into the table, and began to inch around. The clock ticked another minute, and 8:46, the fateful first minute, began. The plane careened into the building a few floors above them, and the next instant was nothing. As far as New York could ever remember, no time elapsed before he was lying under a heap of smashed rubble, mostly dust, inadvertently holding it up. He heard no other sound but that of his own heart, and that grew fainter every instant. He was surprised he had survived. Again, his world slipped back into the time where there is no time, the ghost of both death and sleep, where waking up is never definite, nor is it always good. The time where everything is black, but there is life in the ghost yet.

Alfred Jones was at the site of the collapsed towers faster than a coin can land in the hand of the man who flipped it. And in a breath and a half, he was standing beside the fire chief. "Do you s'pose anyone survived?" His mind quietly drifted to the boy he had instructed to be in one of the towers. He swallowed, waiting for the inevitable answer.

"It doesn't look likely, Alfred..."

Then, a heroic idea planted itself in America's head. The firemen had no means to dig through as quickly as he could with his bare hands… if there were any survivors, they were short on time. He stepped forward, towards the rubble. "Al… don't try and go in there."

Alfred looked at him with a look that said two things; that he intended to go in there, and that there was nothing the fire chief could do to stop him. He looked away as the fire chief shot out his arm to stop Al, but he was already hurdling to the mounds of rubble. He tore through, bending metal, smashing concrete, digging through every possible thing he could find. But there was no one. He dug deeper, dug farther, went faster, looked harder. Not a soul. He stopped after a while, dropping a pipe he had just lifted, as the realization hit him; there was really no one to find. One hundred and ten stories of concrete, metal and glass, smashing down onto a person. There would be no survivors. He dropped to his knees, looking at the smoke-filled area, and looking up at the rubble above him. A solitary tear graced his eye, then his cheek, and dropped to the floor, seeping through the cracks of the cement block he kneeled on. There was really no one. He breathed heavily, taking some dust in his hand, and dropping it, letting is float away. There was really no one. He reached out to a piece of tiny metal, looking at it closely, like a child looking after a broken toy. There was really no one. No one to save. No one to dig up. He had rushed haphazardly into a hopeless situation. He looked around as the few survivors who had been found on the top of the rubble were carried away. They were not survivors of the building, he thought. They were survivors of something else. Because there were no survivors. He thought again, if there's no one to save… they need no heroes. He sank backwards, lowering the hand with the piece of metal, and dropping more stains of sorrow to the thirsty ground.

A boy with large round glasses and a suit walked down the nondescript government hallways that he'll never be allowed to tell anyone about through the Pentagon. It had been less than an hour since the New York Twin Towers had collapsed in the tragic terrorist act. He stepped with no shortage of speed, needing to get to where he needed to get and needing to be there five minutes ago. He opened the door to the nondescript government room at 9:35, stepping in and looking around at the nondescript government personnel. He nodded to them, and placed his nondescript government briefcase on the nondescript government table. Regardless of the fact that everyone knew the Twin Towers had been obliterated, reaction was to be taken in a hush-hush manner. D.C. had just finished getting the papers out when there was a shout from down the hallway. He turned around, running out the door, and looking helplessly on as 9:37 occurred before his eyes. 9:37; the loudest and quietest minute of the day. Of his life. The wing of the building exploded, sending D.C. slamming backwards, crashing into the wall, and looking up. The surreal silence of the event seemed to slow time. There was no sound of screams, though people were obviously screaming. There was no sound of building chunk against building chunk, or building against bone, or head, or stomach. But all these things happened. Right before his eyes. He seemed to be a spectator in a non-spectator sport, or a child in front of a 3D TV. There was no escaping the wreckage, but it seemed to avoid him and go past him. He tried to scoot back, but the wall remained his sanction and his jurisdiction of life, though it took heavy blows from the flying debris. D.C. jammed his eyes shut, throwing himself into a ball, and praying to whoever would listen that this wasn't how he was supposed to die. Eventually, sound returned to the world, and he opened his eyes, looking up at the mounds of rubble around him, still pressed against the now much smaller wall.

Amelia Jones, New Orleans, and Dallas flew northward to two separate destinations. Amelia and New Orleans stopped as near to the Pentagon as they were allowed, then ran to the crippled building. Amelia stormed up to the nearest search and rescue person, pointing and demanding, "Where the hell is my son?" The search and rescue man was about to retaliate, but New Orleans pulled Amelia away. "Boss, he's prob'ly inside still. He'll get out. I knows it." She nodded wisely, and Amelia looked over the smoking stones that were once a wing of the Pentagon. "I hope you're right… I damn well hope you're right."

Dallas' flight went farther north, to the rubble of the World Trade Center, where she looked around for a sign of America or New York. Finding neither immediately, she looked around some more, and eventually made her way over to the medical area, where she knelt down to a man in a business suit, who looked like one of the men America had appointed for them to check in with. "Where's the boy who checked in with ya?" He shrugged, and turned his head.

"I lost sight of him in the wreckage…" She sighed, and leaned back on her hams, waiting for someone to turn up. Anyone.

Alfred looked down at the piece of metal in his lowered hand, and squeezed it, letting a thin stream of red life drip down the side of his hand. He frowned at it, wiping his eyes with his secondary hand, and opened the palm of the first hand to examine the metal again. After long, careful staring, he finally threw it with a loud grunt in anger, and it soared forwards, then skipped on a pile of thin metal that made a **clang** when it hit. Not only did it make a clang, the clang echoed inside the metal for a while, and Alfred blinked. He stood, daring to hope that perhaps someone could be under this small piece of metal. He clambered over the concrete shards and metal beams, sidestepped a falling pole, and eventually reached the spot the metal shard had hit. He squatted in front of it, lifting the heavy metal sheet with ease. He tossed it aside, and reached down to find dust. Only dust. He was about to fall back on his knees, when he heard a soft, low, quiet moan come from under the dust, muffled by the bits of rubble. He blinked, and contemplated the meaning, before it finally sunk in. He grabbed some of the dust and threw it aside, watching the few specs fly. Obviously, if he were to anywhere with this pile of dust, he would need a faster method. He stood up straight, and reached to a metal beam that formed an H shape when you looked at it from the end. He stuck it into the ground, lifting dust out like a makeshift shovel, and began to dig this way. After about ten minutes, the dust was reduced to a small, flat surface that America could brush away with a flick of his hand. He peered into the darkness below the dust, when he realized that he wasn't staring at darkness at all. It was the back of a black suit. He reached down, and wrapped his arms around the wearer of the black suit, and pulled out a fedora-clad boy and laid him down on a flat piece of wreckage, looking down at him worriedly. His head was tilted askew, like the head of one sleeping on something without a headrest. His body laid limp, arms and legs out slightly to the side, and fingers curled slightly, eyelids three-fourths closed, with a small glint of both death and life in the visible parts of the eyes. The suit was ripped, and the fedora was crushed against his head. Every fabric of clothing on him had bloodstains, and every part of his body was bleeding. Alfred put one arm under his knees, and one arm under his back, and lifted him up, beginning to make the trek back to the medical camp. He looked down at New York, and muttered quietly, "You're gonna be okay… you're okay…" He walked a bit faster, taking him closer and closer to the medical field. "I swear to God, you're not gonna die. Not now." He sniffled, and increased the quickness of his steps. "I will not let you die. You can't die…" He took a deep breath, finally reaching the emergency vehicles.

Dallas looked up, seeing them, and almost grinned. Almost. The way New York hung limply in America's arms was not something to grin over. As he placed New York down, she ran over, looking down at New York's limp body. She kneeled down beside him, looking up at America, for once losing the aggression in her voice. "Is he…?"

America shrugged, looking down at the boy. "I dunno… I really don't know…"

Dallas crawled forward some, and leaned towards his face. "You ain't dead… you just ain't…" She attempted to sound commanding, but it came out as more of a squeak. "Dammit, get up… get a hold a' yerself…" The sentences dragged slower and slower as she continued, and she eventually fell with her head on his chest. "Damn you…" Then, before she could say any more, she felt a faint press against her temple. She replaced her head with her hand, and sure enough, there was still a faint heartbeat. She looked up at Alfred. "Git me some water. Like a bottle or somethin'." America nodded, and followed orders, running over to an officer, and coming back with a bottle of water in hand. She took it from him, and opened the cap, dousing New York's face. New York sputtered awake, looking up at his two saviors. They smiled at him, and were about to say something about hello, when he surprised them both.

"Where's the men?"

America blinked. "What?"

"Where's the men?"

"What men?"

"There were thirty two men in that room with me." He looked around the medical area. "Thirty two." He sat up, and looked like he was counting something. He then looked up at America, speaking accusingly, "There are thirty one of those men here."

America shrugged, looking around, "Maybe the last one's at a different medical station."

New York glared, and tried to stand up, to be pushed down by Dallas and Alfred. "Stay down there, New York. You just got out of a really bad situation." America made a face.

New York glared once more, "Then don't lie to me." He stood up, and before either of them could stop him, he punched America in the face, knocking him clean over, and darted past Dallas, sprinting back into the rubble, shouting, "I'll be back. Me and that last guy!" Dallas screamed after him, "Don't you DARE go in there! Git back here!" As if he didn't hear her, he was gone. Dallas looked down pitilessly on the standing up America. "Go git 'im! He'll die in there!"

America looked out at the smashed bits of tower. "You can't stop him now… he's gone." Dallas fumed, but had to accept the answer, staring out at the wreckage.

Amelia and New Orleans sat quietly, looking at a patch of ground between them, waiting for news of the people in the Pentagon. They waited for a very long time, and Amelia grew impatient every once and a while, and stood up to talk to some emergency operator. New Orleans sat, still staring at the ground, during one of these times, and reached into her pants pocket, pulling out her harmonica. She put it to her lips, and played the first thing that came to mind. 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again' began to quietly, and much more slowly than usual, resound in the area around her.

_When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah! Hurrah!_

The search and rescue men shouted something about finding someone.

_We'll give him a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah!_

A large group of men began to toss rubble away.

_The men will cheer and the boys will shout, The ladies they will all turn out, And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home._

Amelia looked over at the men, hoping beyond hope that it was D.C.

_The old church bell will peal with joy, Hurrah! Hurrah!_

The sirens of the paramedics screeched.

_To welcome home our darling boy, Hurrah! Hurrah!_

Amelia ran forward to help in the digging.

_The village lads and lassies say, With roses they will strew the way, And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home._

A shout of "He's alive!" echoed.

_Get ready for the Jubilee, Hurrah! Hurrah!_

Amelia could be seen leaping into the hole they had dug.

_We'll give the hero three times three, Hurrah! Hurrah!_

"He's alive! He's alive! My son is alive!"

_The laurel wreath is ready now, To place upon his loyal brow, And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home._

The medics passed water to the boy before lifting him out.

_Let love and friendship on that day, Hurrah, hurrah!_

Amelia carried him out of the rubble like a baby.

_Their choicest pleasures then display, Hurrah, hurrah!_

He clung to her, like a wounded child.

_And let each one perform some part, To fill with joy the warrior's heart, And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home._

Amelia brought him over to New Orleans, holding him gently.

She dropped the harmonica on sight of him. It was all she could do not to jump up and steal him from Amelia's arms. Amelia eventually put him down, after kissing his forehead. "We were so worried about you." Amelia smiled, and D.C. smiled back, "I'm alright." He turned slightly, but not before a pair of thin, tan arms were thrown around him tightly. "Don't ever do that to me again. Ever." He smiled slightly, hugging her back. "Never." She put her head on his shoulder, and sighed a happy, contented sigh.

Dallas and America cared for the injured while they waited, both thinking similar yet different things. America had a worried look on his face, often looking out at the ruins, wondering where and why New York could be gone so long. He would then look back at the person he was currently caring for, and finish with his work. At the same time, Dallas avoided looking at any piece of rubble, always completely concentrated on the person she was working on, having a somewhat frustrated look constantly on her face. She was quick and efficient, while America occasionally had to redo something. The whole time they worked, silently, absorbed in thought and worry. Neither made any acknowledgement of the other, and simply continued in their routines. Though, every time they heard someone walk back to the area, they both shot their heads around to see if it was New York. For over an hour they continued this pattern, with little to no change. They began to lose hope in New York altogether, and both were completely lost in thought when the quietest person returned. "Did ya miss me?" They wheeled around, looking at New York carrying a man much larger than himself. "Thirty two."

America grinned, and motioned to somewhere to put the man. New York marched him over, and laid him on the spot, turning back and smiling at Dallas, who marched up to him. She raised her hand up to his face as if she were admiring it, then slapped him straight across it. "That's for going in there."

He rubbed his face, frowning slightly, "I had to go—" Before he could finish the sentence, there were a pair of lips on his, pushing against him, and arms around his neck. He was startled, but took it all completely in stride, making no complaint and kissing her back. She broke it, and looked up at him, "And that's for coming out alive." He hugged her to himself, and she held him tightly, never wanting to let him go. America whistled inconspicuously and walked away, just as the two kissed once more.

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><p>September 11th, 2001. Regardless of day, place, or time, please just take a moment to reflect. Remember that even in the darkest hours, the phoenix can still rise from the ashes. Tomorrow will still come. Thank you.<p>

(Yes, reviews are still appropriate and appreciated.)


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